


Untouched

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 17:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11536731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Arthur and Eames make a bet. No one wins, but no one loses, if you get what I'm saying.





	Untouched

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jambees221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jambees221b/gifts).



> This is based on a video (VERY NSFW) that the lovely Jambees221b sent me: http://orgasmictipsforgirls.tumblr.com/post/151169333573/hands-free-male-masturbation-grey-boxers-video 
> 
> Thanks, Jammers! You, as always, are the best.
> 
> Also, thanks to Amysnotdeadyet and AmoretteHD for the beta and cheerleading!

 

“You still in?” Arthur tries to conceal his smirk in his tumbler of whiskey, but Eames can clearly see it through the glass. Arthur is far more transparent than he thinks, with a drink or two in him.

“Indeed, I’m in... five days in, actually.”

“Oh, has it only been five days? I hadn’t noticed,” Arthur says, a giggle hiding in his voice. An actual giggle. Eames makes a mental note to always ask for Aberfeldy, and failing that, Writer’s Tears. 

“I call bullshit on that, as you Yanks say,” Eames growls. _He’s_ noticed. His cock has been leaking for the last day and half. He really had not realized how much he relied on regular release to keep his sanity. 

“Why is that, Eames? Is it harder … haha…” Arthur dips his head, no doubt hoping to obscure the dimples on his face. “Is it harder to keep from touching yourself than you thought?”

Eames curses the day he decided to try befriending Arthur. It had been a terrible notion that has repaid him only in frustration of the most unwelcome kind. 

Having wheedled an invite back to Arthur’s hotel room ( _invite_ might not be the right term, _terse concession_ probably better suits), they had raided the minibar and splayed themselves on the queen beds, flipping channels for a while before settling on Seinfeld, the episode in which they’d each tried to go the longest without masturbating. “Master of my domain,” and so forth. 

Eames resents George Costanza from the depths of his soul; or more accurately, it’s Larry David’s fault. Whatever the case—somehow, after having each imbibed the contents of five or six or ten tiny booze bottles, one or the other of them insists on replicating the bet. It was himself, Eames knows, but he’s taking refuge in the murkiness of alcoholic remembrance. 

Arthur takes him up on it with characteristic grudging reluctance, as is his wont whenever Eames suggests something, but in the following days his reluctance has transmogrified into childish self-satisfaction.

And Eames is going to get to the bottom of it. Right now. 

“It is harder,” he concedes in response to Arthur’s question in the here and now. “I’m wondering if it’s more of a challenge for me because—well, I don’t want to cause offense.” Except that he does, he really actually does. 

Arthur cocks his head like a cute little spaniel, brown eyes all limpid with drink. Then an inexcusably smug smirk appears on his lips and Eames retracts all thoughts containing the terms “cute” and “limpid.” He’s an attack dog in puppy clothing. 

“More of a challenge based on what, Eames? C’mon, I’m man enough. I can take it.”

Eames just watches dispassionately while his libido has a field day with that double-entendre. 

“More of a challenge because I obviously have a higher sex drive,” he says matter of factly, draining his whiskey and setting the tumbler back on the bar with a conclusive thwack.

“Ha!” Arthur barks as he pushes away from the bar. “That is… god, Eames. You don’t even know.” He’s shaking his head and snickering, and he just looks so honestly happy that Eames almost doesn’t want to put this to the test. But he can’t help it. It’s a wager, and so it’s holy, and so Eames has to win. He has to. 

“So you’re telling me it’s no problem for you to just ignore your...” Eames gestures inanely towards the source of most of his trouble. “Arthur, either you’re blessed with a lower libido—” and he breaks off because Arthur snorts at that, and Eames really just wants to get him out of the bar right now because he’s never seen Arthur like this and it’s embarrassing and also excruciating and also doing weird things to the area in his chest just to the left of his solar plexus. 

“Or I have a trick,” Arthur concludes with a wry smile. 

Eames eyes go wide. Arthur is… Arthur is…

“Arthur, are you _cheating_? Is this your _confession_? Are you actually cheating on a bet and also tattling on yourself?” Eames looks all around the bar for witnesses to this and, finding none, shakes his head and slings his arm around Arthur’s waist, herding him towards the door.

“No more alcohol for you,” he mutters as they exit the bar into the cool night air. He tightens his arm around Arthur’s waist, enjoying the feel of Arthur’s warm, lithe body next to his. 

Arthur pulls away, turning to face Eames and walking backwards down the street, towards the tram. “Don’t you want to know what the trick is?”

Eames swallows. Does he? 

“Is that a trick question?” 

Arthur smiles even more broadly, his dimples taking up half his face. “Pun intended? Come on up to my hotel room, Mr. Eames. I think you’ll be impressed.”

Eames cannot process what is happening right now. That was an actual invite. Arthur turns and strides off, his gait smooth and assured. Eames follows.

Once they get in the room, Arthur walks straight to the bed, something about his posture showing that he’s not as smugly casual as he seemed in the bar or on the street. When he turns to face Eames, who has lingered by the en suite door, watching as Arthur sheds his jacket, his face is composed, almost tense. 

“So,” Eames says, feeling more confident now that Arthur’s mood has shifted. “About that trick.”

Arthur just looks at him. “You sure you want to know? You might get more than you bargained for.”

Eames is not imagining the tone of Arthur’s voice. There is definitely some kind of naughtiness in the offing, even though Eames can’t currently imagine what it is. Then it hits him.

“You— you’ve been fucking people. Instead of touching yourself. That’s your ‘trick’?” Eames finds that he’s disappointed. He was expecting something a little less...obvious. Arthur purses his mouth. “And now, what— you invited me here to…?” He lets the question hang in the air. The sense of disappointment is replaced with a sense of anticipation, but Arthur is looking at him like he’s an idiot. 

“I have not been fucking anyone, Eames. And I didn’t invite you here to fuck you.” Arthur turns away and begins unbuttoning his shirt, belying his words. 

“You’re stripping.” 

“I am,” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll want a clear view.”

Eames’ eyes widen, and judging by the light flare, they dilate as well. “A clear view of what?” he manages to ask without choking. His dick is hard, but confused. He and his dick are very confused.

“You’ll see.” Arthur is shrugging out of his shirt. Eames lets his gaze slide over smooth shoulders and a hairless, neatly sculpted chest, nipples pebbled in the cool air. They are biteable and he can easily envision getting one between his teeth. But that’s not on offer here. He backs away.

“I confess, Arthur, I’m at a loss,” he chuckles, his voice casual and soft. “Am I just going to be observing, then?”

Arthur has moved on to his belt, undoing the buckle with economical movements. He nods over to the chair near the window. “You can watch from there.” 

Eames’ rising lust clouds but does not entirely obscure his consuming curiosity. What on earth is Arthur playing at? Arthur’s trousers skim down his legs and he steps out of them, standing by the bed in grey boxer briefs, touchably soft by the look of them. He’s entirely hard, the shape of his glans and shaft visible through the fabric. He keeps his face impassive as he meets Arthur’s eyes. 

“This is where you tell me what’s going on, Arthur,” Eames says in a warning voice. Arthur laughs.

“I’m showing you how I can comply with the letter of the bet while violating the spirit.” 

“We said we wouldn’t touch ourselves,” Eames says. 

“I don’t need to touch myself.”

“Frottage?” 

A smile. “No.” 

Eames decides he’s just embarrassing himself by guessing. Evidently, dear Arthur has more imagination than he’s usually credited with. He sits in the chair and crosses his legs at the ankle, affecting insouciance. Arthur sees right through it, by the look that crosses his face as he lays himself down the bed. 

Arthur’s cock presses up against his pants in a tantalizing invitation to touch. Eames’ blood rushes hot through his body as he reminds himself there will be no touching of any kind. Not of Arthur, and not of himself. He’s certainly not going to lose the bet now.

“No touching, right?” he murmurs. Arthur shakes his head. 

“No touching. Are you sure you can do this? Would you like me to tie your hands?” Arthur is stretched out like an indolent pet, seemingly not bothered by the desperate state of his cock. He thrusts his hips into the empty air and his eyes slide closed momentarily, opening again to fix on Eames, hot and dark.

Eames holds up his hands and places them very deliberately on the arms of the chair. “I’ll be fine, but your faith in my restraint is touching.” He is pleased to note that his voice sounds steady as a rock. “Carry on.”

“If you’re sure,” Arthur says, then closes his eyes again. Eames adjusts his chair for a better view and Arthur’s eyes fly open again.

“No touching me, either, Eames.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, pet,” he lies as he sits on his hands just to make sure. Arthur’s body is far more to his taste than he had previously imagined, and the way he’s moving right now, slight undulations of his hips thrusting his bulge upwards, makes Eames’ whole groin hot with pulsating need. 

Arthur spreads his legs wider and his head falls the side, hands clutching the bedsheets as his stomach rises and falls on huge breaths. He’s apparently _thinking_ his way to an orgasm, and Eames has never seen anything like it. He watches, hypnotized, as Arthur’s rigid cock strains against the fabric of his pants, a tiny dark spot forming at the tip. Eames can smell Arthur’s arousal and finds himself bucking into the air helplessly, in imitation of the filthy show that’s happening two feet away.

Oh fuck, Arthur’s cock is leaping under the soft cotton, jerking upwards to seek more friction. It’s like an eager animal, hungry for stroking, and Arthur is just denying it, the sadistic bastard. Eames would take such good care of it, if only he could touch it. He balls his fists up underneath his legs, digging his knuckles into the backsides of his thighs to focus his mind on the pain, but it doesn’t work.

He feels like he’s hyperventilating, watching the rhythmic motion of Arthur’s writhing torso, helpless to move things along. The wet spot is growing and Arthur’s starting to make little sounds now, his lips parted and his eyes moving restlessly behind their lids. Eames is suddenly both ravenously curious to know what he’s thinking about, and jealous of whatever person Arthur might be envisioning. This will not stand.

“Nnngh, Arthur,” Eames says, low and almost involuntarily. Arthur twitches and his eyes flutter open. “Uhhh, oh god, you look so… fuck, I want to…” 

Arthur opens his eyes and locks onto Eames’ hot gaze. It’s like a thunderbolt of pure weapons-grade lust shoots straight into Eames’ lowest chakra and he moans, moans at the intensity of it. He can’t talk for a second, as his aching cock has stolen all the blood from his… what’s the word? Oh, brain.

“Keep talking,” Arthur whispers, then closes his eyes again.

“Do you know what you look like right now?” Eames growls, pitching his voice in that honeyed-gravel register that never fails to reel in his chosen target. Arthur’s mouth curves into a slight, knowing smile.  
“You do, you fucking tart. You look...nnngh, fuck, Arthur. You’re leaking all over yourself, your poor lovely cock.”

“My cock is—aaaah,” Arthur moans and his cock twitches hard as his hips jerk upwards. “You want it?”

“Fucking hell, I want—I’m going to peel those filthy pants off you and suck you down, love.” 

Eames doesn’t let himself think about the endearment that just escaped him. He has other things to worry about, such as preventing himself from falling bodily on top of Arthur and grinding till they both combust. Arthur smiles and hums his approval, undulating up off the bed, giving Eames a clear view of the pert globes of his arse before he rolls back down. 

“No touching,” Arthur says, voice rough and breathless. Eames growls.

“I’m going to take the head of your gorgeous cock into my mouth and lick the come out of the slit, wiggle it down in there til you’re pulling at my hair.” His arousal suffuses his entire body, his cock no longer the main focal point. He feels like he’s floating. “I’ll suck on your bollocks—god, I wish I could see them, I bet they’re delicious—and then lower, hmmmm.” 

Eames realizes that he’s leaning forward in his chair, rocking into the seat to get some kind of friction against his balls, the closest he can come to any contact with anything without losing the bet. Arthur’s pretty far gone, head thrown back and eyes still closed, but even though he wouldn’t notice if Eames touched himself, Eames would know. It’s not just Eames’ sense of fair play, which tends to wax and wane with his mood. It’s because he has never seen anything like this. 

This isn’t masturbating. It’s art. It’s a masterpiece. He would never desecrate it by cheating.

Arthur is flagrantly panting now, and his eyes open again, again fixing on Eames, where he’s canted forward as though he’s about to leap out of his chair and attack Arthur’s sweating, taut body. His eyes widen and time seems to stop as they both wonder what’s about to happen. 

Eames licks his lips and Arthur’s eyes track his tongue and then roll back in his head as his lids flutter shut. “I can do this, Eames. Let me do this and then you can do anything you want.” 

Talk about an invitation. Eames pulls his hands out from under him and rubs them spastically on his knees and thighs, the sweat from his palms streaking his trousers. He grips his knees tightly, pretty certain he’s leaving bruises, but the pull of Arthur’s body is tormentingly intense. Every muscle and nerve is straining towards him. 

Through all of it, Arthur’s belly rises and falls as he gasps and sighs, his cock twitching harder and faster in his pants, the wet spot covering the whole head and some of the shaft. Eames can see that the material is shiny now. Arthur’s fingernails rake the bedsheets as he writhes and pushes upwards into the insensate air and Eames wants to scream his frustration. It comes out in a long whine. 

“I want to wrap your legs around my neck and swallow you whole,” he grinds out, voice wrecked and broken. “I want to push my tongue into your hole, I’m going to finger you until you’re wide open for me, darling, ready to take—nnngh—my cock. God, I’m so hard, fucking hell, Arthur, what are you doing to me? Fuck, _yes_ ,” he says as Arthur’s back arches off the bed. 

It’s clear from the quick spasms of Arthur’s cock that he’s about to come and the sight breaks Eames’ slipping control. He surges out of the chair just as Arthur curls in on himself and lets out a long, animalistic moan. Eames is transfixed as the cloth-covered prick jerks violently up once, twice and actually lifts the elastic band of the pants slightly, allowing a spurt of come to streak Arthur’s muscled groin. 

In the space of breath, he’s on the bed between Arthur’s splayed legs, sliding the pants down his thighs. A glistening pool of come rests in the hollow of Arthur’s hipbone. Eames doesn’t know where to look: at the evidence of Arthur’s success, at his mouth-watering cock still hard and twitching and covered in precome and jizz, or at Arthur’s face, slackjawed and debauched. 

Arthur’s cock is too compelling. Eames licks at the stickiness along the length of it, the bitter taste of Arthur’s completion filling his mouth. Arthur thrusts weakly up into the sensation and makes a noise that has Eames’s own cock twitching and pulsing. He’s close. 

He cleans every trace of come off the beautiful prick under his lips, swipes his tongue through the slick puddle on Arthur’s hip, then sucks a bruise up on the spot underneath. Arthur bucks into the suction, crying out, and that’s it. Eames groans and fills his pants with hot jets of come, clenching his eyes shut and gusting out a harsh “fuck!”, forehead resting on Arthur’s smooth lower belly. He lets his head roll to the side, so Arthur’s spent prick is in front of his face, and catches his breath. 

Fingers card through his hair, tentative at first, then sinking further in, to graze his scalp. He smiles. 

“So, technically, neither one of us has lost,” comes Arthur’s throaty voice, which he can hear resonating through his muscle and bone. 

Eames lifts his head to stare at Arthur.

“Are you suggesting that we should continue the bet?”

“I’m saying I’m sure you’re creative enough to come up with… alternatives,” Arthur says with a sly smile. “Or do you want to forfeit? After all, I’m not feeling the immediate need to touch myself any time soon.” 

Eames gives Arthur’s cockhead one parting suckle and then levers himself off the bed, smirking.  
“You’re on, pet,” he says casually, his heart racing. 

“Want to change the rules up a little?” Arthur props himself up on his elbows and gives Eames an appraising look.

“What did you have in mind?” Eames leans on the wall next to the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. He does not miss how the tightening of the fabric over his shoulders is clocked by Arthur.

“We still can’t use our hands to touch ourselves, but that’s the only thing we can’t use.” 

Eames takes a deep breath through his nose, his cock already reviving. He’s afraid his eyes go a little bit out of focus as a cascade of filthy imagery tumbles through his mind. 

“I accept your terms,” he says, letting the smallest smile tug up at the corner of his mouth. Then he blows Arthur a kiss and strides out of the room. 

Once back at his hotel, Eames lays down on the bed, letting the glow of anticipation fill his cock and spread out from there, penetrating every molecule of his body. He can already feel the urge to touch himself.

This is going to be torture. 

He can’t wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr at [oceaxereturns](%E2%80%9Coceaxereturns.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)!


End file.
